Boxcar window
with no glass or shutter
winter wind rushed in.
Cold.
Fresh.
A mixed blessing.
Outside
an icicle.
I reached high.
Stood on tiptoes
stretched.
So cold it burned.
So cold it brought revival.
A lick for Lázaro.
A slurp for Necha.
Pass it to Mama,
I told my sister, who held on for one more taste.
You first, Zlatka, Mama said.
Delicious.
Cold.
Wet.
Like ice cream on a summer’s day,
gone too soon.
Leaving lips slick with its memory.